


Road's End, Sky's Beginning

by Solrosfalt



Category: Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War
Genre: Altena is just a baby, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Children In Danger, Don't have to know Canon since it's a retelling, F/M, Jugdral Week 2018, Kidnapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 11:57:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14894213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solrosfalt/pseuds/Solrosfalt
Summary: With the Yied Desert ahead of them, Ethlyn thought she knew what awaited her husband. All she wished for was for her to stay at his side, but not like this.Not like this.





	Road's End, Sky's Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> For Jugdral Week 2018, prompt “Hero” AND “Villain” by following both Ethlyn's and Travant's POV. Thanks to Deet'var for the beta!

“Lance Ritters, keep it up! We’re getting there!”  
  
The sleeping child in Ethlyn’s lap stirred at the sound of her father’s voice. Ethlyn leaned down and hushed her; rocked her gently along with the horse’s movement beneath them. The child arched her back a little, but then she settled into sleep again.  
  
Ethlyn couldn’t help but smile at the little bundle. She’d heard from her mother than children never slept when you wanted them to, but Ethlyn’s little Altena was the shining exception; luckily not taking after her father, the restless sleeper.  
  
At the thought of him, Ethlyn looked up and glanced at her husband riding beside her.  
  
The sun was blinding above his tall figure, and it hurt to look at him – though she’d endure those searing tears just for the chance to see him for a few seconds longer. His powerful silhouette was a sight she’d never tire of, and something she feared she’d never get to see again. She wasn’t actually meant to be here at his side. She would not ride to war with him this time. She _couldn’t_.  
  
She’d have to turn around soon. The thought made her chest churn.  
  
In front of them was the Yied Desert, and just a few more hours north, her brother waited. Although the word ‘ _waited’_ implied that he did so patiently and quietly – and Ethlyn knew he was far from both patient and quiet. He was probably entangled in yet another fight for his life.  
  
_Oh, Sigurd_. Her brother was always getting himself into one conflict or another; would he ever find peace? Would any of them? The entire continent of Jugdral was changing; the fires of discontent being put out as they came, and through ways Ethlyn did not understand, it was her homeland Grannvale that stood in the ashes every time. Three nations were under Grannvale’s occupation; and each time it happened, Sigurd was in the middle of it. Ethlyn had assisted him before, helping him to ride out storm after storm – and she’d honestly believed he’d be left in peace once he’d reached Silesse.  
  
Not so. Peace was not for Sigurd. The kingdom of Grannvale wanted him gone, and they wanted it strongly enough to frame him and their father, again and again, each time worse than the last. At times, Ethlyn could almost find the rumors about Sigurd convincing – Grannvale had done a superb job in painting his face on a villain’s actions.  
  
“Quan”, Ethlyn whispered to her husband, sitting straighter so she could get another good look at him without the sun blinding her, “I’m very sorry to put you through all this. It is kind of you to agree to help my brother… especially with your father being so sick.”  
  
Quan’s face turned to her. He had such an impossibly sharp jaw. It was one of the first things Ethlyn had noticed about him, and she’d told him she liked that feature of his face – long before they were married. The boy he’d been then hadn’t said much in response, but Ethlyn had noticed how he, after hearing her words, often stroked his own chin and smiled one of his tiny smiles. He husband wasn’t much for words – more for _frowning_ , really – but he hadn’t needed to say anything for her to notice.  
   
”Ethlyn”, Quan answered her, his lips barely moving. “Your brother has been done a great injustice. I could never rest if I let such dishonor besmirch your family, and thus by extension, mine.”  
  
Ethlyn closed her eyes at that. No, indeed Quan couldn’t rest. He never could. Caught up in Leonster’s affairs as he was, she almost always found him pacing, wandering, and muttering to himself. Though she shouldn’t complain; she’d known what it would mean to marry a future king, especially the king of Leonster. South Thracia always nibbled at Leonster’s borders with its cruel wyverns.  
  
The south was a bare land, in stark contrast to northern Thracia’s rich soil and numerous trade routes, and their people had to turn _somewhere_ to get their food. Ethlyn understood that. And the northern houses were all careful not to engage in much trade with the south – the reek of distrust after centuries of bitter relations wouldn’t wash out easily. Ethlyn understood that too.  
  
Though the last few years had been especially harsh for the south, and ever since Quan’s father and the rest of the northern kings had denied their southern neighbor increased trade during the time of their starvation, Thracia had grown all the more aggressive.  
  
Ethlyn had pleaded to Quan, that surely they had supplies to spare for the starving Thracians, and he could convince his father of it – but Quan wouldn’t hear it.  
   
_It’s to preserve our own army_ , he’d said. _We cannot afford weakening ourselves – while strengthening the enemy no less! Ethlyn, these are dire times. I’m sorry, but the south will have nothing from us._  
  
Seeing the desert ahead of her, Ethlyn still couldn’t shake the feeling that their denial had been unnecessarily cruel – if southern Thracia looked _anything_ similar to this naked soil, what hope did they have?  
  
She should try to convince Quan again, when he came home from this battle. _If he did_.  
  
”Ethlyn, we’re in enemy territory now.” Her husband’s voice was warmer when he spoke her name this time, and it drew her thoughts back to the present. “You better head on back. The fighting may start anytime.”  
  
So the time she’d feared had begun. She enclosed little Altena in her arms and drew a deep breath through her nose.  
  
“Quan…  Please. I want to see my brother again, and I just can’t stand to leave your side – I’m coming with you.”  
  
Her husband looked at her with a reluctant sorrow in his gaze. He extended his arm out to her and stroked her shoulder.  
  
“You know that can’t be done.” His touch was mild, but his words tolerated no objection. It wasn’t his nature to sound callous, although a nearing battle like the one ahead of him never failed to make his heart cold.  
  
Ethlyn clenched her jaw and looked away, stared into the ground. Quan must have noticed her childish sulking, and continued in exasperation; “Ethlyn, I do not doubt your skill, but _Altena_ is in your lap! What do you expect to do with a three-year-old when the fighting begins?”  
  
No, of course. Of course. She couldn’t bring little Altena into the inferno of blades and magic. Ethlyn had decided that her children would only know peace; and when she’d decided something, she intended to get it done.  
  
But she’d _also_ decided for her children to know their father, and she couldn’t let go of the violent, dark feeling that he wouldn’t return from this desert. If there was a chance for her to keep him alive, keep their family whole, wouldn’t that be worth it?  
  
The pain of worry would be so heavy; she knew she’d just pace their home, Altena at her hip and newborn Leif in her arms – constantly sick from distress.  
  
She grimaced. Perhaps she was about to be sick, actually. She’d given birth only a month before, and it made her body still feel… off.  
  
Quan stroked her shoulder again. “Come now, Ethlyn, we agreed”, he said, softly.  
  
”I know”, Ethlyn whispered. ”I will turn back. But just… a little bit longer. Please.”  
  
Quan gave her a weak smile, and his hand moved to stroke their daughter’s head, before he took his reins again. The sand under the horse’s hooves made their gait unstable; Ethlyn had to hold on to the front of the saddle in order to stay upright.  
  
She really should turn back.  
  
She really should. Now. Or now. No, _now_.  
  
She took the reins. _Yes, now_.  
  
“Will you be all right?”  
  
She thought of adding ‘ _dear_ ’ to her question, but she knew her husband wasn’t fond of pet names.  
  
“Ehtlyn, don’t worry, I have the Gáe Bolg with me.” He gestured to the intricate lance over his back. “I cannot fall with this by my side.”  
  
No, that was indeed true enough. Ethlyn knew what power a holy weapon could bring – but then why didn’t she feel safe?  
  
She pressed her lips against her daughter’s head, perhaps a bit too hard to be gentle. The child stirred again, and her eyes opened.  
  
That wasn’t good – Ethlyn knew how much Altena cried when separated from either of her parents. She hated hearing her precious daughter shed tears – unfortunately, Altena did cry a lot. Leif was of a much quieter sort; or maybe he just hadn’t had his period of colic yet. It was hard to tell after just a month. She’d have to wait and see.  
  
Thinking of Leif growing up before her did make her more eager to turn around, but she’d just... have one last look at her husband.  
  
How she wished she’d be able to fight along Quan’s side, like before. He needed someone to look after him when he dived into his reckless folly.  
  
But he’d be fine.  
  
She followed his jaw with her eyes, hoping to catch a glance of his deep brown eyes again – she remembered what those had looked like in the time of peace; so soft in a face hard as marble. His broad shoulders, as if made to be embraced; she’d wrap her arms around those again, when he came home.  
  
And he would. He’d be fine.   
  
She tugged at the reins with the intention of turning around, but a cry shot through the air from behind her and she stopped and craned her neck to see where it came from.  
  
“Impossible!” Quan must have turned his head as well. His outcry would have made her jump, but right then she sat motionless, chilled to the bone by the sight in front of her.  
“It’s Thracia’s Dragon Knights!” Quan called out to the cavalry closest to him. “Spread the word, get ready to fight!”  
  
The cavalry roared out their synchronized war cry in response, and struggled to turn and face their enemy, their mounts sinking in the sand.  
  
Ethlyn was _definitely_ going to be sick now.  
  
“No, no, no”, Quan mumbled through his teeth, quiet so only Ethlyn could hear. “King Travant’s followed us... Ethlyn, get out of here! We can’t put up any kind of fight in the desert.”  
  
Ethlyn’s eyes were stuck to the horrifying creatures screeching in the air – they shot forth like arrows, already plunging down at the back lines of her husband’s army. She couldn’t ‘ _get out of there_ ’, she’d just ride right into those monster’s claws.  
  
There was no escaping this.  
  
Altena let out a whine in her arms, and the sound shut out the cold from Ethlyn’s heart – shielded it with steel. She wouldn’t let them harm her baby.  
  
This wasn’t the first time she’d sent her enemies to death, after all.  
  
“Don’t give up!” She yelled toward Quan. “We’ll fight him – and I will take Altena out of this alive with me!”  
  
Quan’s eyes were soft again, despite the danger. She’d gotten her wish to meet his gaze before she left – but now she merely wanted to meet them just _one more_ time. Well. She’d fight for it.  
  
“Ethlyn... Thank you.” Quan pulled his holy lance free from his back, and reached out to touch her arm. “You can take them. I know you can. Now please, survive! I will come for you back home.”  
  
Ethlyn gave him a stiff nod. She wouldn’t disappoint him by returning his soft look – she’d come to know him well, after all these years. In this, he needed her to be a warrior. She pulled the reins, and the horse limped in a circular motion through the sand.  
  
King Travant’s wyverns cast shadows above her, blocked out the sun.  
  
Quan had left half their force in Leonster. He'd known Travant might attack the castle as the king was gravely sick and vulnerable, but that Thracia would instead attack them _here_ —

Althena was stiff as a brick between Ethlyn’s arms, she kept her neck craned to see the wyverns sweeping past above them. Her heart hammered in her little chest like a wild butterfly.  
  
The wyverns were getting closer to her. There wasn’t a chance in the world that Ethlyn would succeed in her flight – and in her heart, she’d known it.  
  
She drew her sword, her head held high. “Hold on”, she said to the child in her lap. “I will protect you, Altena!”  
  
The child’s eyes were wide as she stared at the wyverns and the violent death they caused the cavalry’s back lines. Oh, merciful Blagi – that Altena would have to witness this horror.  
  
Ethlyn bit down on the inside of her cheek, focusing her thoughts. That was a problem for another day – as long as Altena lived, Ethlyn might be forgiven for causing her such nightmares.  
  
_Yes. There was nothing to worry about_. Ethlyn would be there by Altena’s bedside every time she awoke, comforting her and singing her a lullaby as many times as needed. Altena would return to sleep, and grow to be strong, never having to witness another battle again; it’d be fine.  
  
Ethlyn could see that so clearly, even as the wyverns dived at her.  
   
She met the first two of Travant’s soldiers with confident slices, but the sword’s edge merely slid along the wyvern’s hardened leather skins.  
She expected their counter. While her horse managed to rein away from the first lance stroke, the second stroke hit her hard in her chest.  
  
She thudded down into the ground. Sand crawled down her collar.  
  
Altena wailed loudly in her arms.  
_  
If they cry, they breathe_. It was a saying that Ethlyn hated – she hated to find something positive in her children’s tears even more than she hated hearing their cries.  
  
She hushed her, though the pain in her chest had it sound more like a hiss.  
  
“There there, sweetie”, she croaked and tried to cover Altena with her own body as she fumbled for her sword. “We’re soon home, mommy prom—“  
  
Her words stuck in her throat when a sharp pain shot through her, like ice through her neck; _inside her bones_.  
__  
It pushed her head down in the sand to meet with darkness.

 

**\------------------------------**

 

  
  
King Travant was seldom pleased with his life.  
  
A side effect of living on scraps and starvation for the past years, with the knowledge that others – namely, the Northern Houses – had it so much better.  
  
All the more joy it brought him to polish his lance in his enemy’s blood. It was low of him, to pray on them at the Leonsters at their weakest, and he knew that – but he simply didn’t care. The bare soil of Thracia never gave a fair fight, so why should he, who was the supposed master of it all?  
  
No, whether it was wrong or not simply didn’t matter. If he would have to burn for eternity in his afterlife to atone, then he would – for now he took what the northerners hoarded and his people lacked.  
  
Was that not justice?  
  
Was it not fair that his heart burned in black flames, fueled by hunger?  
  
Every single Northerner could die for all he cared.

He lifted his lance from his latest victim’s throat. He let his wyvern land beside the crazed horse that had just been carrying its master, alive.  
  
_Some things change quickly, little horse._  
  
Travant glanced down on his victim – she was differently equipped from the rest. She wore only a light breastplate, beyond that she was dressed in layers of fabric only a lady of very high standing may wear. Her hair that stuck to the blood on the tip of his lance had the same color as the roses these wretched snobs worshipped so much.  
  
Recognition came to him with a shudder devoid of regret; the Princess Wife of Leonster was lying in the sand, spilling brains.  
_  
_ That _was_ unfair; she might have been an innocent bystander in it all – but no. She was a northerner, just like the rest. Now finally, the snobs got a taste of the merciless life he and his people had _always_ suffered. Just what these selfish bastards deserved, wasn’t it?  
  
He leaned down for a closer look, and over the cries of anguish all around him, he heard the wail of a child.  
  
King Travant was seldom surprised, especially not in battle – he lived and breathed the blood on his lance and the roar of his wyvern; there was nothing he had not seen. But now, he had to admit, he was quite... _disbelieving_.  
  
Beneath the princess’ body, a tiny thing crawled about. A child. It tried to escape the suffocating weight of the corpse, and its wail was _unbelievingly_ loud.  
  
Travant leaned down and grabbed the back of the child’s tunic, lifted her straight off the ground. The pressure choked down some of the cries, but the child didn’t exactly stop.

 

A weaker person might let his mind wander to his own son, the same age, the same brown, tousled hair, the same face red from crying. A weaker person might let that image get to his heart.  
  
Travant was not a weak person.

He knew he could use this.

He flung the child above his head, holding on to the back of her tunic, and took to the air.  
  
“Quan!” he cried down, cutting through the sound of wings and fear. He didn’t bother with any formalities or titles – the bug did not deserve it.  
  
The Leonster prince caused an unexpected amount of pain to Travant’s troops – the flash of his holy lance wasn’t to be underestimated. The worthless snail even looked _confident_ in his strokes, as if he sincerely thought he’d win.  
  
Kudos to that, but it ended now.  
  
“Quan!” he called again, sweeping past the prince’s head. Sure to have the bawling child fully visible.  
  
“Travant!”  
  
So he’d caught his attention. Good, good.  
  
Travant’s mount slid down at a safe distance from Quan’s lance. The ribs on dead horses cracked under the wyvern’s weight, and its tail thrummed against the armor of one of Quan’s overfed soldiers.  
  
The prince had a fire in his eyes, and it was nice to see him so furious. Did he perhaps finally understand Travant’s anger? Well, no matter. Travant shouldn’t make this so... personal. This was mere business.

He shook the toddler in his grasp – gently, in his opinion, but not like he would his own child – and the prince had finally caught sight of her. The fire in his gaze instantly died, cold fear taking its place. It left Travant no doubt that the child was Quan’s – children were tricky after all, this girl looked a lot like her mother, except for her brown mess of a hair.  
  
“What say you to another _trade_ , prince?” Travant called toward him, drawing his knife. “Drop the Gáe Bolg, or kid joins her mother.”  
  
Realization dawned on the prince, and by Crusader Dain, it was one of the sweetest sights.  
  
“Ethlyn”, the prince howled, twisting around in panic, then turning back to stare at the child in disbelief, then back to twisting. “ _Ethlyn_!!”

He stopped short, shedding the shock like a snake would his skin. The prince was a trained soldier alright.

Travant let him settle. Bargaining with a shocked mind wasn’t optimal, better to wait.  
  
Quan hunched in his saddle with his lance readied. One of Travant’s lunged at him, but the prince parried. He wasn’t the least bit flustered anymore. He looked closer to a demon than a human, with that raw hatred in his face.

“ _Curse you!_ ” His jugulars popped along his throat, his face positively burning. He moved as to urge his horse to reach stabbing distance for Travant, but his horse was sinking in the sand, slowing him down. A pathetic show; Travant had plenty of time to place his knife.  
  
“Reconsider”, was all Travant said to him, but that was all that needed to be said. Quan froze, reining in his horse; seems the demon in him crumbled at the sight of the knife’s edge right by his child’s throat.  
  
And with that, Travant knew he’d won. Which he probably would have no matter what, but with the Gáe Bolg tamed, he’d cut any significant losses.

“Drop the lance”, Travant shouted. “I will not ask again.”

The prince’s hands trembled as he extended the lance. The bright light around its edge dimmed down, only to die completely when he let go.

He raised his hands, held them up in a show of surrender. 

Wasn’t this just the most beautiful day.

“Seems like you have a sense for trade after all, _your highness_.” Travant let the knife inch away from the child’s throat, trying to showcase his best polite smile.

The prince ignored his quip; he had his gaze focused on his daughter. “Altena”, he said, slowly and reassuringly, “there’s nothing to be scared of, don’t cry—”

At this point, Travant knew for certain he would be condemned in the afterlife if he went through with it, but all it took was one thought of his people starving in the streets and he knew what he had to do.  
  
He gave the signal.  
  
A wyvern rammed the defenceless prince, tipping both rider and mount into the harsh sand.  
  
  
The prince didn’t cry. Travant had to respect him for that.  
  
The child was another matter. Her scream pierced the air, as if about to split the sky itself. This one had power.  
  
He placed her in the cranny of the saddle front; she was still wailing, enough to make even his wyvern snort uncomfortably.  
  
“Mission a success, y’majesty.” Ingvald was the one speaking – Travant’s third commander, a loyal soldier far too outspoken for his own good. He babbled when he got excited. Travant had trusted him with a state secret once, and never again.  
  
“Ugh”, Ingvald continued as he dismounted to fetch the Gáe Bolg from the ground. “Just shut that child up, will ya? I can do it if y’like.”  
  
Travant put the knife back in his belt with a scoff. “No thank you. Hand me the lance.”  
  
Ingvald climbed back on his mount with a shrug, and reached the Gáe Bolg to Travant.  
  
“What’cha gonna do with it, boss?”  
  
Travant snatched it out of his hands, giving him a warning glare. “None of your bloody business.”  
  
The way a holy weapon worked was that it responded to blood. Only a descendant to the Crusader Noba could ever wield Gáe Bolg’s power. In Travant’s hands, it lay dead, no sacred light emerging from its tip. Travant had holy blood of a different kind, able to draw the might of Gungnir; but to him, Gáe Bolg was as useless as a wooden toy sword.  
  
To _him_ , that was.  
  
The chance of a young, unawakened power meant _potential_. Travant never wasted potential.  
  
He held the screaming child by the shoulders and turned to his soldiers. “A victory”, he shouted, and the men and women of his Dragon Army hoisted their weapons with a cheer. “We return to Thracia to regroup – then Leonster is _OURS_! The wall sheltering the north has crumbled!”  
  
Another wild cheer, drowning out the child’s annoying wails. This Altena wouldn’t shut up, would she?  
  
He’d lie if he said his heart broke to the sound of the kid’s pain, but was there perhaps… a similarity to his son Arion that grew on him? All children’s wails sounded the same, and the thought of Arion in pain was… an uncomfortable thought. Although a thought Travant had been forced to get used to, since little Arion – the _prince of Thracia_ – had to go to bed hungry some days.  
  
That ended now.

He took to the air.  
  
The little kid – Altena, he might as well get used to calling her that – stopped her noise for a moment as she was shot into the sky, but then she cried again. Less air-splitting yells and more quiet sobs, and thank Dain for that.  
  
They left the former Lance Ritters of Leonster to rot in the sun, as was befitted for them; this would be the perfect day, if not for the small detail of a toddler sobbing in Travant’s saddle.  
  
The radiance of victory surrounded him and his Dragon Knights, but all Travant mind lingered on was the thought that he probably had a daughter now.  
  
And he wasn’t entirely sure what to think of that.


End file.
